A Tribute To The Fallen
by FervidIndignant
Summary: This is an AU story of Enzo's background and turning, beginning on 1st July 1916. As we know absolutely nothing of Enzo's backstory other than he was captured by the Augustine's in 1943, I thought this would be an interesting thing to write. It was originally written as a series of solo's on my Enzo RP account @aberrantmaniac.


**1st July 1916**

Ducking into a shell hole in No-Man's Land as yet more shell's roared overhead, I slammed a hand down atop my tin helmet to try and stop it from flying off. The damn strap was too loose and my hands shook far too much to tighten it where I was. I'd seen men in such conditions before, the way they shook after being under constant fire and the way they went through their rations of whiskey quicker than you could blink. Christ I needed a drink, and in that moment I wished beyond anything that I hadn't agreed to join this god-forsaken War. The only way I could describe it was as hell on earth and I imagined being at home, back in London down the local pub chatting up some girl and drinking a pint with the lads. But no, "Do your bit for King and Country" my dear papa had said. And me being the good son of an old Italian family had agreed, wanting to make my mother and father proud. Christ I could hear his voice now, even with the shells exploding all around me, "Do your bit for King and Country, Lorenzo. Make your mama and I proud of you." Just how in the name of the Living Christ could I say no to that?

And so I had taken myself off down the sign up office not six months ago, gone through the rigmarole of a full medical and basic training before being shipped out to France. It was said that there was a massive offensive being planned, that the allies needed every able bodied man in the area of the Somme as soon as possible. I clearly recalled the day I got on the train at Kings Cross how I had kissed my mother goodbye and told her not to cry, that I would be home before she knew it. But now, with the bullets whizzing overhead, that didn't seem very likely at all. I would more than likely get my brains blown out and become another lost soldier in a sea of rancid mud just as thousands of my comrades already had. A brief glance at the watch on my wrist told me it wasn't even 9am yet. I had been out here for an hour and a half, yet it seemed like a life time. Shaking hands reached into my jacket for my flask of water, giving it a quick shake and finding it empty. Now I was without means of liquid it felt as if my throat were on fire and in a fit of pique I threw the flask across the shell hole, leaning back against the sides with a huff.

"Advance at walking pace" Those had been the commands from higher up the food chain, "At 7.30am, zero hour, the guns will stop and you will advance at walking pace towards the German front lines. The bombs will have cut the wire, killed almost all of their infantry. We'll be having lunch in Beaumont Hamel, boys!"

They had been wrong. They had been more than wrong. As soon as that whistle had blown and we had climbed over the top the guns had started. Yet still orders were shouted. Walking pace. There was no other option. And as we walked, as I walked, my comrades fell at my sides one after the other after the other. Death took them one by one and I had tried so desperately not to look at those who survived the first shots, to look at those still on their feet with half their faces blown off or holding in their own intestines. Now from the relative safety of my shell hole I listened to the screams of the dying as wave after wave of allied soldiers tried to make their way towards the German lines and they fell like dominoes in the games my friends and I used to play as boys.

A low groan of pain caught my attention then, snapping me back to the present. I had thought the bodies in this shell hole were simply that. Bodies. But the man opposite me was well and truly alive, despite the gaping hole in his chest. Yet he begged for the gift of mercy, begged for a swift death so his wound wouldn't fester and go septic. I had killed many in the few months I had been at war, but never close enough to be able to see the light leave a man's eyes.

"Kill me. Please. Just bloody kill me!"

He kept on bleating those words over and over again, hammering them into my skull until I could bear it no more. But just how would I end his life? My rifle and bayonet were too unwieldly but at my belt hung a pistol used for close quarters combat. I had never once fired it, hadn't wanted to, but it was the only way, "I'm sorry about this mate, so bloody sorry…" Cocking the pistol, I raised it in shaking hands and took a calming breath, holding the barrel against his forehead. I could barely look as I squeezed the trigger. The shot had my ears ringing and I felt something warm splatter across my face.

Scooting backwards, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to calm. Yet another voice hit my ears, an irritatingly perky voice that had me on edge from the get go, "Did you do that? Bloody ruthless. Saw the whole thing. I'm impressed."

My eyes widened at the stranger who was young, with sandy hair that fell messily over his forehead. What was odd was that he wore no helmet, and there was a massive grin plastered over his face that was smothered in blood.

"Did I…?" My gaze fell upon the corpse opposite me and I felt bile rise, leaning forward and vomiting, "Christ on a bike I hate doing that…yeah, I killed him. He was dying…begged me to kill him so I blew his brains out."

The man flashed me an overly charming smile and held out a flask. Somewhat suspiciously I took the flash and sniffed, the alluring scent of whiskey overwhelming my senses. Mumbling that he's a lifesaver, I took a mouthful before handing it back.

"Like I said, ruthless" He watched me carefully and for a moment I pondered asking why he had so much blood across his mouth, "You're afraid of death aren't you, lad?" He didn't give me time to answer and I imagined that the puddle of vomit told him enough, "The moment you step foot out there again, some German bastard is gonna blow /your/ bloody brains out. But you...?" He pointed at me, and I stared right back at him in utter confusion, "You have potential. That and I like how bloody blunt you are."

All of a sudden he stuck his arm up above the ridge of the protective hole we were in. I winced openly as a bullet flew through his palm, tearing muscle and sinew, blood pouring down his arm. And yet as he lowered his arm, the wound healed. Right before my very eyes. Staring in awe, I tried to speak, to voice the questions that were right on the edge of my tongue "Those bullets can't kill me, mate. And it can be so they don't kill you, too. You'll see out this war and live forever. Sorry…how bloody rude of me, I'm John. And you are?"

I struggled to string together my words, just staring at the man. What in God's name was he? No matter, I wanted to see this stupid bloody war out and somehow I knew he was right. The moment I stepped foot out of this hole, a bullet would find its way through my skull, "Uh…L-Lorenzo. Lieutenant Lorenzo…" An explosion close by meant my last time was drowned out, "But my friends call me Enzo"

"You want that, Enzo?" His voice remained calm and all I could do was nod. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. But this seemed like the only way out.

The man was suddenly before me, his wrist bleeding and shoved towards my mouth. As the coppery sanguine coated my tastebuds I tried to push him away, gagging at the taste. Yet he held me in an iron grip, only pulling away at his pleasure. I felt physically sick again wishing I had some way of getting rid of the taste, "What the bloody hell do you think you're...?"

My words were cut off as his hands found their way to the side of my head, his grip once more tight. Not that I could have gone anywhere anyway. I was frozen in fear "This is a kinder fate than being shot" My last view was his face before he yanked my head to the side and everything went black.


End file.
